


busy waging wars [on myself]

by babybirdblues



Series: from the very first  [dicktim week 2019] [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Soulmate AU, Temporary Amnesia, soul searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21863731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybirdblues/pseuds/babybirdblues
Summary: Tim can't remember who his soulmate is.Normally, that's not a problem. Except something in Tim is telling him he knows who it is. Tim really hates magic, and more importantly, Gotham magic users.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Dick Grayson
Series: from the very first  [dicktim week 2019] [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570708
Comments: 4
Kudos: 156
Collections: Dick Tim Week 2019





	busy waging wars [on myself]

**Author's Note:**

> Day Five! This is one of my favourite ones. It's for soulmate au and adventure. I'm super proud of it too.

Tim can't remember who his soulmate is.

Normally, that's not a problem. Except something in Tim is telling him he knows who it is. Tim really hates magic, and more importantly, Gotham magic users.

He hates the fact that he doesn't even know the extent of the memory loss. He means, sure, he's pretty sure it was focused on taking away his soulmate -- the witch was pretty specific about losing the other half of him. If he hadn't known his soulmate before, would he have lost any chance of finding him? And it is a him, he knows that. But she didn't know that he was aware of who it was.

Which, mostly likely, fucked with the spell.

Tim just wishes he could remember. Because it's an ache -- almost a gaping hole in his chest -- and he's not sure if it felt like that before.

_ (maybe that's another thing affected by the spell) _

"Tim?"

Tim blinks, eyes sluggish as he turns to face Dick. "Yeah?"

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?"

He does. But he doesn't.

Tim's not entirely sure what he wants. Because the ache just keeps growing. It gets worse when he thinks about being alone.

_ (about dick leaving him and that should have been his first clue) _

"I'll be fine," his voice rasps, still aching from screaming -- at least he was told he had screamed. "I'm just gonna, lay here and sleep. Probably."

"If you're sure, handsome." Dick looks uncertain, hands tapping aimlessly against his chest. "You need anything, you call, okay?"

He smiles -- more of a grimace really -- and crosses his fingers over his chest. "Cross my heart."

Tim watches as Dick leaves and aches.

_ (the pain intensifies as dick leaves and it's all tim can do to not curl up and cry) _

Alfred had offered him a sleeping aid, but Tim doesn’t know if there will be an unfortunate side effect due to the whole magic thing. So he’ll have to do this the hard way -- ignoring the pain and the ache that’s part of his soul just being  _ gone _ .

<<<<<>>>>>

The transition between wakefulness and sleep isn’t apparent. Not at first. Tim’s still in his bed, curled up in pain. It’s just, it wasn’t daylight when he was laying there. 

_ (it’s taking him too long to notice things) _

And it’s definitely daylight now, the sun a blinding arch through the open window. It’s a struggle to get up, to make his way to the window but he does. Because there’s something there, something he needs to know and he’ll be damned if he lets this go on. Magic is not going to ruin him, not now and not ever. If he has to learn how to live with the constant pain and the knowledge that he’ll never know his soulmate again, well, he’ll do it. But Tim’s going to at least try to get it back.

_ (he got Bruce back, after all) _

Tim looks out the window to see the backyard of the old Drake manor.

It’s not right, especially since he should be seeing the Manor’s backyard with Alfred’s beautiful gardens and the pool that Damian tried to drown Tim in last week. So, obviously there’s something important about his childhood. Because that’s the whole point of these soul searching dreams, right? To lead you to the part of your soul that is shared with someone else.

Okay, focus Tim.

( _ it’s hard; the ache is back, trying to steal the breath from his lungs with every second it exists _ )

His old backyard looks the same. Same generic flower beds, same generic statues, and same generic furniture. There’s nothing special about it -- there’s laughter, coming from down by the far wall, the one that connects the Drake property to the Wayne one.

Sure enough, when Tim looks closer, there’s a younger version of him -- maybe four? It’s hard to tell, he’s always been small -- play fighting with a stick. It’s funny how the image sends a whole different kind of pain through his chest, how watching the younger version of himself smile and laugh tears through his lungs like they’re tissue paper.

( _ when was the last time he laughed like that _ )

The kid-him turns to the wall, looking up at something perched there, and the smile on his face grows -- Tim didn’t think that was possible. But it is. He has to lean farther in order to make out what it is. There, sitting on the wall and preening, is a smallish, red-breasted robin.

Well.

That sort of narrows it down.

There’s not a lot of people who are symbolized by robins. At the same time, it could be that the robin is only a symbol. Don’t they mean something about hope and a bright future? Either way, it’s a step in the right direction. The pain that’s been gnawing away at him has a less tenuous hold on his lungs at the very least. Tim should probably take that as a good sign.

He wonders if he can speak to those parts of his soul. Doesn’t hurt to try, does it?

“Hey!”

Both the robin and his mini-me turn to look at him. But the rest of the words get caught in his throat, lodged behind a knot, even as he takes a step forward.

( _ he’s always reaching out for something, isn’t he _ )

He falls.

It knocks the wind out of him and he lays on the floor struggling to breathe for more than a few minutes.

He’s not in his room anymore or any other part of the Manor. In fact, if he’s right -- and he’s pretty sure he is -- he’s on the floor just outside the elevators of Titan Tower. He vaguely remembers the story behind the giant crack in the plaster of the ceiling. Something to do with Donna and Wally attempting to see who was faster. It wasn’t dangerous to the structure of the building, so the team decided to keep it as a way to warn new members about powers indoors. Or something.

Regardless, he’s in Titan’s Tower. Sort of neat to know that it’s part of his soul. Could have done without the short walk and quick drop. The question is whether the Tower is part of his soul or part of his soulmates. It could be either. It could be both. 

( _ part of him hopes it’s both -- that would mean narrowing it down further, would mean that he knows them and _ )

Tim rolls onto his side, gagging up bile as the ache in his chest increases tenfold. It expands, filling up his throat and threatening to choke him.

The spell.

Okay.

Tim can work with this.

If the spell is causing pain every time he thinks he knows who his soulmate is, he’ll just not think names. He’ll go through his soul until he finds the part that is his soulmate’s and by then the spell shouldn’t work anymore.

Hopefully.

( _ part of him doesn’t care if it kills him as long as he remembers before he dies _ )

Tim gets up. He won’t find anything just laying here, suffering. 

There’s no elevator on the wall behind him -- odd but not odd enough -- and no other door than the doors leading outside. Tim doesn’t particularly want to open them, considering the last time he was near an open entrance way in his soul he fell into this section of it. He doesn’t have a choice though. Not if he wants to get anywhere.

So, Tim’ll just be careful.

When they open under the lightest bit of pressure Tim has to squint against the bright Californian sun. There, on the beach in front of the ocean, are two figures. They’re more than a little blurry, but Tim can still make out the red hair -- familiar, oh so familiar -- and the limbs moving well beyond the normal speed humans are capable of.

He swears his heart stops for a minute, because he knows who they are. But then the pain is increasing, ricocheting down his spine, causing him to stagger before he doubles over. He tries to catch himself on the door, tries to cry out.

( _ he’s used to catching himself, used to silencing the cries _ )

The door is gone, the ocean beyond twisted into smog encrusted buildings. Tim catches himself on the harsh iron of a fire escape. He’s gasping, torso shaking with the strength of his inability to breathe through the pain.

“Fuck,” not thinking about who his soulmate could be is harder than you’d think. 

The pain eventually starts to subside and his breathing evens out, which allows him to investigate where he is now.

It’s a tiny fire escape -- secreted out of the way in an alley that seems to have no entrances or exits. Tim knows it. He’s spent many nights here, resting and just existing. Spent nights here mourning a friend-could-have-been-more-was-more-once.

Tim’s not surprised that Steph has a part of his soul. She’s been a part of him for a long time. Will be a part of him forever, he thinks.

( _ not that he’s ever going to be part of anyone forever _ )

It’s nice. Calming. And there’s no gaping, all consuming ache in his chest when he thinks of her. It could be because he knows his soulmate is a man. It could also be because Tim’s started to get over the pain of betrayal, of the bad decisions they made.

Either way sitting here, on the familiar fire escape, while the pain from the last attack subsides is nice. The soul searching can wait, Tim thinks. At least for a bit. Maybe taking a nap in his soul will make him less tired when he actually wakes up? 

There’s laughter overhead.

It’s familiar -- so familiar it sends a spike of agony through his chest. His eyes snap open and he flails, arms caught in a tangle of blankets. A particularly violent flail knocks a book off of the shelf above him. Tim yelps when it collides with his forehead. 

( _ you’d think he’d be able to avoid falling _ )

Tim grumbles as he rubs his forehead. At least that pain counteracts the one that’s steadily spreading through him. Sort of. It’s easier to focus on other things at least.

Like the book in his lap.

The book has no dust jacket, just a few symbols where the title should be. Kryptonian symbols that almost seem to shine in the dim light of his desk lamp. When he opens the book, the pages are starched and crisp, crinkling loudly under his fingers. There are a few pictures, sketches of things, but most of the page is taken up by the Kryptonian words. Tim tilts his head as he trails fingers over a sketch of a giant bird of flames.

Everything is in Kryptonian, except for the note folded and taped to the front cover.

_ ‘Robin, _

_ I’m happy I could help you with this project. Give him my regards, _

_ The House of El.’ _

Tim sighs, putting the book to the side. That’s not really any more help. Why does his soul have to be so, so mysterious and confusing!? Fuck, if he could just remember or if he could think it -- the ache returns with a vengeance, trailing up his spine and curling around his lungs in a lover’s embrace.

“Arrrrgh,” Tim’s hands smack into his face, rubbing harshly against eyes that are burning. He just wants this to be over. Wants to be able to breathe without it feeling like he has glass in his lungs. Wants to be able to just  _ know _ . Because too much of this is confusing and no matter what he’s doing the pain isn’t going away.

Hell, he’d take going toe to toe with Ra’s over this.

( _ he’d take searching for Bruce a second time over the fear of  _ _ never _ _ finding out _ )

The bed falls away with a snap -- Tim’s arm goes out to catch the grapple line but it’s too heavy, too useless. There’s blood in his mouth, bubbling out the edges and obscuring his sight. But the arms, Tim knows those arms. Trusts the person behind them. 

Knows that they’ll catch him -- he hits something solid and screams as the ache travels up into his head. It’s the first time the spell affected his head and it’s akin to torture. There’s a stabbing, a burning in his mind that won’t go away.

Eventually it eases into a dull pulse. Enough that he can open his eyes.

Tim’s in a safe house. On a couch that’s an eye searing orange and wallpaper from the eighties that’s peeling around the edges. Slowly Tim sits up, choking back bile as he goes.

( _ you’d think he’d be safer in his soul _ )

The safe house is, again, familiar. Mostly because of the items in it. There, on the table, is a compact bow. Not something Tim sees anyone use regularly, but there’s a few scuffs and dings in the casing that make him think of Roy. More specifically of Roy using the body of the bow to smash a serial killer’s arm into two pieces. It was a coincidence that Tim had been trying to take down the same man.

There’s also a sweater -- one that Tim had been laying on. It’s cashmere, dyed a deep blue and worn around the neck and cuffs, like someone was constantly tugging on it. Tim pulls it out from under his hip, burying his face in the feel of it. It smells familiar too. It helps him push the gnawing ache to the back of his mind. Helps him focus on anything other than the flash of lightning arcing across his nerves.

( _ because knowing people’s scents isn’t creepy _ )

A whistle startles Tim, causing him to open his eyes to the sight of Gotham. It’s rushing by, swaying in time with the train below him.

Tim’s going through sections more quickly now. He must be close to the answer.

His legs give out beneath him at a particularly sharp stab of pain. Tim thinks he’s going to fall, going to fall right off the side of the train, but then someone grabs his arm, grinning -- even if Tim can’t see, because they just passed under a spotlight and it’s blinding while also shading the features of the face Tim longs to see.

“I know you.”

It’s lost to the wind as the man turns away, racing down the train.

“ _ I know you. _ ”

The only option he has is to follow.

( _ so, he does _ )

Tim races down the train, barely keeping his footing. He’s just at the end of the car, just about to catch up when the world tilts and he’s sliding across a roof. The asphalt under his knees burns even as he staggers to his feet.

“Wait!”

A gunshot rings out, forcing Tim to roll to the side.

( _ even his soul is gunning for him _ )

There’s no asphalt under his back. No ache from a gunshot wound. It probably wouldn’t have hurt more than the pulsing in his chest, the constriction around his lungs and heart.

Instead, it’s grass, damp and soft under a star speckled sky. This is what he had expected back in the beginning. The flowers that he can see out of his peripheral vision. The tastefully designed furniture made more for comfort than for beauty. The smell of a salt-water pool not far off.

He’s in the backyard at the Manor.

Except at the same time, he’s not.

Because, even if the Manor isn’t in Gotham proper, the stars are never this bright.

_ (there’s only one thing -- one person -- that shines that brightly to him) _

Sometimes he wishes he had never stayed in Gotham. Sometimes he wishes he had never figured out who Batman was. Would he be normal? Would he be dead already? Would he have found someone to love, someone who wasn’t necessarily connected to his soul?

Probably not.

Tim can’t imagine his life differently. Doesn’t think he’d want to.

“Come inside!”

The call comes from a room on the second floor. There’s a shadow, silhouetted by the warm light of a room. He’s beckoning. Urging Tim to stand up and go to him.

So, Tim does.

He races into the Manor, barely registering the easing of the pain that’s haunted him through his entire journey. The stairs are endless but are covered in all too short a time. All he has to do is throw open the door in front of him, step forward into the room and he’ll know -- he’ll remember.

_ (he’s scared _ )

Tim knows already. Has known throughout this entire time, even if the spell wanted him to forget. It tried to take away knowledge Tim has known since before he can really remember.

He opens the door, warmth wrapping around him. He feels safe, feels content, even as the TV to the side of the man is playing some of the first captured video of Batman and Robin, of the night Tim saw a young boy do a quadruple backflip and knew that Richard Grayson was going to mean the world to him.

The ache sharpens one last time, trying to stab into his heart and bleed him out. But Dick -- it’s Dick, has always been Dick -- holds out a hand.

Tim reaches forwards to take it.

( _ at least let it happen once if never again _ )

<<<<<>>>>>

Tim wakes up. 

He jackknives into a sitting position, tears falling silently down his face.

“Dick!” it comes out as a gasp, barely a sound at all. But Tim couldn’t keep it locked in his throat if he tried.

“Hey handsome,” the man in question is sitting there, on the edge of the bed. He looks wrecked, like he hasn’t slept in days and his hair is sticking up as if he were constantly pulling at it. The bags under his eyes are glaringly obvious next to the red rimmed flesh that indicates he’s been crying.

“D-dick,” Tim swallows, hand belatedly attempting to reach out. He pulls it back, faster than if it were to be burnt. “H-hey. Ho-how long was I out?”

Dick has no reservations in touching Tim. He reaches out, cupping his chin and sighing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I,” he can’t know. He can’t. “I don’t--”

“Please don’t lie to me Tim,” Dick’s thumb strokes softly at his cheek bone. “You and I both know that you knew. I don’t know how long, but I know you knew. Because otherwise I would have figured it out when I searched for you all those times.”

Tim fidgets with his fingers, looking down and refusing to meet Dick’s eyes. They sit there in silence for what seems like forever.

And then Dick moves.

He pulls his hand away -- Tim didn’t whine, didn’t reach out to hold him in place -- and proceeds to climb into the bed properly. He flops down, dragging Tim down with him.

“I’ll let you off the hook for now, handsome,” Dick’s right arm locks around Tim’s waist, while the left brings Tim’s head to rest against his clavicle. “But know this; if you don’t come out and truthfully tell me to let you go, I’m never letting you go again. Not when I know that you’re part of me. If you really don’t want me -- if you really don’t want this, that’s different. But other than that? I’m not letting this break.”

( _ it won’t last _ )


End file.
